


No-Kill

by Snailicorn



Series: The Most Important Things [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental drug overdose, Angst, Batman is protective, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Canon-Typical Violence, Dick Grayson is Robin, Gen, Harm to Children, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Batman, Robin whump, and hes precious and a badass, barry allen is flash, batman's no killing rule, child endangerment, daddy!Bats, drug overdose, flash is more than comedic relief, i mean protective justice league really, well the accidental part is iffy, worried batman
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 11:06:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10570032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snailicorn/pseuds/Snailicorn
Summary: “I’m not worried about his wounds.” Bruce interrupts. At the sight of Clark’s furrowing brow, he explains himself. “They didn’t seem concerned with who got what. That means the same thing was in each syringe, at around the same dosage.” He re-positions himself and looks over Robin’s still form again, “I’m 6’2” and upwards of 200 pounds; he’s 11 and small for his age.”----------------------Dick's life hangs in the balance and it could push Bruce to go too far. Clark and Barry have to keep things from getting worse than they already are.(You don't need to have read others in the series for this fic)





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is in the same continuity as the other(s) in this series, but you don't need to have read them.  
> This fic also mentions Inhibitor Collars, which are [these things](http://youngjustice.wikia.com/wiki/Inhibitor_collar). I don't know if they're seen in anything other than the YJ cartoon, but they are absurdly overpowered.  
> Also, I put in a really dumb Flash-based pun at one point and I am not sorry.

The built-in distress signal programmed into Batman’s suit is activated by pressing, in order, three camouflaged buttons located respectively on the left temple, the right shoulder, and a spot just above the left elbow. These points, tapped consecutively with no more than 37 seconds between each activation, send a beacon to Justice League headquarters with Batman’s coordinates. There is no text or audio other than the pinging of an alarm—there doesn’t need to be. If the League suddenly receives the signal, they know to come to his aid.  


It’s actually the first time he’s considered using it, Bruce muses as he dodges a fist, and he’s not sure how long it will be before someone responds. He hates not knowing. 

On the opposite side of the room—the large foyer of a not-so-abandoned rundown mansion—Robin flips backwards, sailing over an attempted leg-sweep and kicking another of their attackers in the face. The man cries out in agony, pressing his hands to his gushing nose, and falls back. Three more take his place. 

Batman narrows his eyes in frustration. None of the men are particularly skilled, but they have numbers on their side. The intel had lead him to believe there would be less than twenty to take out, and he had planned to take them by surprise. He’s not certain where it went wrong—someone, somewhere, must have caught sight of them and by the time they reached the mansion, the attackers were more than prepared. _Someone’s getting a promotion,_ Bruce thinks bleakly, _but from whom?_ He taps the button on his temple.

Most of the low-ranking criminals wear their own street clothes. A few have poorly-made masks or bandanas covering their lower face. It only serves to highlight the four white-clad men who enter now, throwing the double doors of the main entrance open. These men carry syringes filled with something as clear as but probably more deadly than water; and when the lightning of the storm outside cracks the sky behind, their stark-white clothing allows them to blend into the bright night.

They use this seconds-long cover to their advantage. Despite their matching looks, the men do not attack as a unit. They come in frenzied, tearing into the crowd and shoving the lesser drones aside, pummeling clear paths towards Batman and Robin. Ducking under a flailing pair of brass knuckles, Batman hits the sensor on his shoulder.

“Stay alert!” Batman commands over the roar of the thunder. Across room, Robin takes heed. He notices the syringes and uses his size to his advantage, slipping under and through the legs of the criminals and working his way towards his mentor. A man, one of the plain-clothed ones, strikes it lucky and manages to grab the boy by the collar. 

“Batman!” Robin shouts, calling Bruce’s attention to his charge.

This is not the intended reaction, the Dark Knight realizes upon feeling the sharp jolt of the needle plunging impossibly into his shoulder _through the Kevlar_ —Robin had been trying to warn him, not call for help. His vision starts to dance and he loses his coordination almost instantly. Robin has freed himself with a swift kick to his captor’s groin and is working his way through to him once again. 

Disoriented though he may be, Batman still has experience and skill that the attackers cannot match. They will eventually overpower him as the drug takes hold and their numbers overcome him, but he can buy time for Robin. “Go!” he commands, not sure exactly how the boy will escape but knowing his clever mind will come up with something.

“Batman!” Dick calls again, this time looking defiant.

_Damn you, get out of here!_ Bruce internally screams, clenching his teeth. He faces, not for the first time, the reality that his charge could be killed. The drug is fighting him more than he can fight it at this point. He barely misses another syringe, and stumbles back to clash painfully into the wall behind him. He slams his upper arm back into the wall, activating the final sensor and triggering the distress beacon. A tiny, blinking red dot on the cowl’s internal display alerts him that the signal has been sent. It will have to be enough.

As his vision blurs and he sinks to the ground, the thugs back off enough that he can make out Robin closing the distance—he’s less than 10 meters away now. Batman reaches out a hand though he knows his body cannot do anything to help; Robin extends an arm towards his, but they are nowhere near touching. One of the men in white grabs Robin around the chest, pinning his arms to his side, and another jabs a syringe into the boy’s arm. The last image in Bruce’s brain is that of the boy’s body falling limp as the blinking red blur of the signal consumes his vision.

\-------------------------------- 

The clanging of metal and a grunt of effort are the first things Bruce takes in as he comes back to himself. He instinctively feels for a weapon—his utility belt is gone, which is unsurprising. Through his still-clearing vision, he tries to take in his surroundings. The room is tiny in comparison to the dusty foyer he remembers, but large enough to house four old, barred prison cells. His is the leftmost, in the corner, with bars on the front (where the door is) and the right (the barrier shared with the next cell). The iron bars are rusty, but not so deteriorated that he could kick them apart. The lock on the door appears to be just that: a lock hardly more complex than those sold for mass consumption at a hardware store. He can pick it easily, as soon as his captors leave. His hands and feet aren’t even bound. Feigning unconsciousness so as not to alert the enemy, he remains silent as he contemplates his next step.

Two cells down, directly in his line of sight, he spots Superman. This complicates his escape—he can free himself, but he can hardly leave an ally behind. The grunting turns out to be that of two men, plain-clothed, struggling to lift the large Kryptonian and drag him into a cell. For a split second, Bruce is mystified that anyone could be idiotic enough to think that Superman can be restrained with a common jail cell. The drugged fog in his mind lifts as his brain recognizes the power-inhibiting neck braces, meant for use in restraining supervillains at Belle Reve Penitentiary. In any other circumstance, he might use this as a chance to learn about the device; he’s got more important things to worry about, however.

The alien is heaved into the cell and the door is secured with the same uncomplicated lock on Bruce’s cell. The men make their exit, mumbling to one another and casting anxious looks at the prisoners as they leave. The clang of the metal inhibitor hitting the bars on the other side of Clark’s cell as he falls against it jars Bruce’s mind from the last remains of its sluggish state. He looks down.

In the cell between himself and Superman, lies Robin. He can’t believe he had forgotten about his partner. The longer Bruce looks on, the higher the deadly anger rises in his body. The boy is on his side, facing away from Bruce. His cape covers most of his body, so Batman cannot ascertain the extent of his injuries. He can see no blood, but that does nothing to assure him. He can’t even tell if the boy is breathing.

“Robin,” he calls, casting a glance towards the door the enemy left through before moving to the side of his cell. He wants to hurt them, not out of a sense of justice but out of vengeance. Right now, he doesn’t care about involving the police, tracking down the leader of this group and bringing them to justice. He only wants to them to _hurt._ He reaches through the bars as far as he is able to without getting his bicep stuck, but quickly realizes that he would not be able to reach his sidekick even if he could extend his entire arm into the cell. Swearing under his breath, he withdraws his hand. “Robin!” 

His voice seems to snap Clark out of his stupor, and the other man starts to sit straight up from his lean against the wall of bars. They have left a red pressure mark on his face in their image. “Br- Batman?” 

Bruce grimaces at Clark’s almost slip-up. He knows just as well as the rest of the League that using civilian names in the field is strictly disallowed. Given the state of the alien, however, Batman decides to let it slide for now. His mind is preoccupied, anyway. “How did you get captured?” Batman demands. Hate fills his blood and he grows impatient.

Superman blinks as his memory returns to him. “You sent a distress call with your coordinates.”

“That’s not the question I asked.”

Superman frowns at him. “It’s not like you relayed any kind of information about what happened to you. We were coming in blind.”

“You knew that I was overpowered, so you should have known to be on high alert at all—” Bruce pauses, “’we’?”

Clark starts to reply, but catches sight of the boy in the cell between them. “Robin,” he says softly, concern evident in his tone. “What did they do to him?”

When Clark moves closer to the bars between his and Robin’s cells, Bruce realizes his sidekick is closer to that side. “Check him,” he demands, fighting and failing to keep the rage and panic out of his voice. 

Superman doesn’t take his eyes off the kid, but replies, “I can’t- I- this thing, I can’t use my x-ray vision or—”

“You have hands, don’t you?!” Batman bites back impatiently. Superman flinches.

It takes a second to understand what he means, since Clark is used to being able to check the status of anyone via looking directly into their bodies, and therefore rarely checks any other way. He reaches through the bars, holding a hand under Robin’s nose for a moment. A faint, warm air. “He’s breathing,” he says, allowing himself to relax slightly. He doesn’t miss the sigh of relief from Bruce’s cell. Next, he reaches for the boy’s arm, which is thankfully slightly closer due to his position. Dick’s left hand is missing its glove for some reason. Grasping the child’s wrist, he is silent for a moment. “Pulse is pretty weak,” he tells Bruce, his voice going softer. “What did they do to him?” he asks again, “to _you?_ ”

Batman grinds his teeth. Every reminder of his adoptive son’s state adds to the darkly tipping scale in his mind. He tries to focus on categorizing the facts of the situation into positives and negatives, but he’s struggling not to twitch in his inaction. He needs to fight, to _hurt_. He’s barely listening to Superman, but the question burrows into his mind during the ensuing silence. He takes a breath and forms the words in his head before he speaks. “It seems to have been a sedative. We were both injected with it; you probably were, too. I can’t be sure how long I was out for, so I can’t determine how potent it is.” 

“If it’s just a sedative he’ll be okay, right?” Clark tries to calm his teammate, eyeing the man with some nervousness and noting the stiffness in Bruce’s shoulders is even more prominent than usual. “There’s a little blood on his fingertips like he clawed at them, but that’s all I see, so his injuries probably aren’t—”

“I’m not worried about his wounds.” Bruce interrupts. At the sight of Clark’s furrowing brow, he explains himself. “They weren't particular about who got what. That means the same thing was in each syringe, at around the same dosage.” He re-positions himself and looks over Robin’s still form again, “I’m 6’2” and upwards of 200 pounds; he’s 11 and small for his age.” 

When he sees the dawning look of realization on Clark’s face, Bruce turns away. “But that’s—”

Batman nods grimly, refusing to make eye contact with the other man again. “That much of whatever the sedative they used was, in a body that small… It could stop his heart.” He swallows and takes a shaky breath. “It still might.”

Superman remains silent, his gaze cast downwards at the unconscious (perhaps dying?) boy in the cell next to him. 

\-------------------------------- 

The door bursts open, nearly falling off its hinges and loudly breaking the tense silence in the room. Two men in white enter, pushing a struggling Flash ahead of them. He wears a power-inhibitor as well, but it can’t stop the speed of his mouth. 

“-and how does everything in Gotham that isn’t a spooky warehouse still manage to look like a spooky warehouse? Hey! You’re awful grabby there, buddy,” he rants annoyingly at the man holding his hands behind his back as the other relinquishes him to walk toward the cells. The words have the slightest trace of slurring to them; perhaps Barry has been sedated as well? If he has, it’s worn off quickly. The man tightens his grip on his wrists and twists them harder into Barry’s lower back. “Ow! Hey, you better buy me dinner first if you’re gonna put your hands on me like that!”

Ignoring him, the man at the cells reveals a set of keys. Batman and Superman tense their muscles, each ready to spring out and attack if the chance to grab the keys presents itself. The man with the keys ignores them, too, eyeing the far right cell with irritation. “They didn’t fix that shit, did they?” His partner shrugs. The Key Holder approaches the cell and pokes at the lock on its door. Sighing in annoyance, he shakes his head. “’Course not. Bunch of damn amateurs.”

As though his working locks are anything to brag about.

“So what do we do with this one?” the man restraining Barry asks.

“Oh, man, what a shame! Guess you’ll have to just let me go!” Barry tries, earning himself a face-first slam into the closest wall.

The Key Holder scratches his head and looks from Batman to Superman, both primed to rush him if given the opportunity. Raising an eyebrow, he turns to his partner. “Throw him in with the kid, I guess. He ain’t going nowhere.” 

Barry seems to notice the other three for the first time and his eyes widen as though he’s just realized how bad the situation really is if the others have been caught as well. He doesn’t struggle when they throw him in, though he makes a valiant attempt to reach the door as they close and lock it. With his speed still functioning, he would have easily made it.

“Boss wants us,” the Key Holder tells the other man when a faint beep echoes from his pocket. The two take their leave, one of them grumbling a sarcastic “Play nice!” at the captured heroes. Clark huffs loudly and Bruce clenches his fists, practically shaking with fury.

“Damn,” Barry exhales. Turning, he puts on a fake grin and looks to Bruce. “How’s it going, Batman? We came to rescue you, is it working yet?” An uncharacteristic edge to his voice conveys his agitation. He follows the Dark Knight’s glare to the floor and notices the other prisoner in his cell. He kneels beside Robin immediately, turning his head to Batman, Superman, and back. “Is he alright?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer, turning the boy carefully onto his back and checking for obvious injuries. As he does so, Superman takes lead and catches him up to speed on Robin’s condition. “Poor kid,” Barry mutters, inspecting the child for obvious broken bones. He starts to remove Dick’s mask, to check the reactiveness of his pupils, but thinks better of it—there could be cameras, and all this effort to rescue the two of them will be for naught if their identities are revealed and they are targeted as civilians. He lifts his gaze back to Bruce, hoping for some sort of command what to do. “He’s in bad shape.”

“I know,” Bruce says darkly. There is a frightening edge to the man’s voice, something that chills Barry to the bone. The Bat doesn’t disappoint, however. “Come here.”

“What, me?” 

“Who else would I be talking to?” 

Barry knows better than to get onto Bruce’s bad side in an already terrible situation, so he does as he’s told. He casts a desperate look over his shoulder to Clark as if hoping he will speak up and save him, but the Man of Steel is lost in thought. When Flash hesitantly reaches the bars separating them, Batman suddenly grabs at his upper arm and yanks him painfully onto his knees, pulling his arm into Batman’s cell up to the shoulder. “Ow! Hey, watch it! Did you even check if the bars were electrified before doing that?!”

“They’re not.”

“Yeah, but did you _check?!_ ” Barry huffs, knowing it’s useless to try to argue with someone who barely speaks when he doesn’t have to. Bruce pulls him again, and he winds up almost on his side, with his neck pressed at an awkward angle to the bars as Bruce does… something?

“From the look of this place, I think they blew their whole budget on the drugs and a couple power-inhibitors. I think it’s safe to say they don’t have any high-tech electrified prison cells. I could bend these easily if it wasn’t for this collar,” Clark tugs at the metal bars uselessly before turning to the others. “Batman, what are you doing?”

“They took my utility belt, but I have other tricks up my sleeve,” he replies coldly, showing a tiny sliver of metal.

“They let you keep a lock pick?!”

“They may have numbers and a few inhibitors on their side, but that doesn’t mean they’re smart,” Batman says, sounding the slightest bit smug. “These are collapsible; I keep a few in a secret compartment in the index fingers of my gloves. The inhibitors don’t have conventional locks accessible from the outside, but they do have recessed sensors that only something very small can activate; picture the reset buttons on your home electronics. There are 15 of those. I’ve been interested in these devices since they were unveiled at Belle Reve, and I haven’t had much chance to study them, but I should still be able to hack them.”

“Would you look at that?” Barry laughs, “Mention something nerdy and he turns into a chatterbox.”

Clark frowns. “What do you mean you’re _interested_ in them? The same way you’re _interested_ in keeping a piece of Kryptonite in your possession?”

“Backup plans,” Bruce says. “I prefer to be prepared for any scenario. You’ve seen what happens when I’m not,” he finishes grimly. It’s hard not to slam his fist into the bars, but he resists.

The inhibitor comes off with little fanfare—Batman pushes a final button and it just pops open. Flash feels like he’s just taken a deep breath of fresh air for the first time in ages despite being in what appears to be a poor man’s dungeon. He’d run laps around his cell to celebrate if things weren’t so dire.

“Flash,” Batman begins, holding the inhibitor with one hand and examining it with what he hopes is a restrained amount of interest, “vibrate through the bars into Superman’s cell. I’ll give you a lock pick and you can start working on removing his collar. I can get myself and Robin out.” He hands the tiny metal rod to Barry, who then hands it to Clark.

“Be careful, I hear these bars may be _electrified,_ ” Clark teases.

“Shut up!” Barry exclaims. “It’s hard enough to focus with the kid being hurt and you two inches away from a cat fight at any given moment.” 

Superman steps back to allow him space, but Flash still somehow ends up stumbling into him when he makes it through. The Man of Steel just sort of lets him bump into him, then hands over the pin and tilts his head to present the spot of the inhibitor with the buttons. He may not be as good as it as Batman, but Flash knows how to hack. That said, Barry startles when he hears Bruce’s cell door clatter open and hits the wrong sensor, accidentally causing the device to give a minor electric shock to Clark. “Sorry, sorry!” he exclaims, but really, it’s karma for making fun of him, so he isn’t all that sorry.

Superman grunts in irritation and Flash starts over. As he works, Batman breaks into the other cell and tends to his sidekick. When the collar finally pops open and falls from Clark’s neck, Barry awkwardly fumbles it for a few moments before remembering that it isn’t _his_ device, so it’s not like he cares what happens to it. He lets it fall to the hard floor, feeling stupid.

Clark shudders as his super-senses return to him suddenly. He hadn’t realized how foggy everything had been until now. His ears ring painfully at the cacophonous clatter of the inhibitor against the cement floor. He picks up on the hushed words Bruce speaks to Dick as he tries to rouse him. Bruce asks Dick to open his eyes, to squeeze his hand, to speak-- but Dick does not. Even still, Bruce's tone lingers in Clark's ears in a way his words do not. It’s the first time today Clark's heard Bruce’s voice filled with anything other than spite. Barry puts the lock pick to its intended use and frees them of the cell, too restless to wait for him to decide to bend or break the iron. Clark instead uses the time to x-ray the others and make sure none of them are hiding serious injuries. 

The two metas meet Batman at the door to the middle-left cell as he carefully gathers Robin into his arms. His limbs dangle like a doll’s as his adoptive father shifts him into a better position, and his head is moved to rest against Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce would, in a typical situation, throw the child over his shoulder to free up one of his hands; but the circumstances being what they are, the risk is too great. He doesn’t want to put any unnecessary pressure on the boy’s chest when there’s a real chance he’ll stop breathing. Besides, Bruce has other plans.

The speedster zips over to the door and peers out through the crack between the hinges, trying to figure out how many guards are outside. If there are cameras in the room itself, no one is watching them. They would have been confronted by now. Batman approaches Superman and wordlessly hands the child over. Confused but acting out of instinct, Clark takes him. The 11-year-old is light as a feather, especially now that Clark’s got his super strength back. He seems somehow even smaller than he has before, though Clark knows it’s his stressed mind playing tricks on him. Clark’s just relieved to hear his heartbeat, however faint it may be.

“Take him to the Gotham Free Clinic. Enter through the back and tell Dr. Leslie Thompkins what happened. If there’s anything that can be done, she’ll do it.” Batman gives orders authoritatively and anybody else might instantly do as he says out of instinct. Superman isn’t anybody.

“And just leave you here? No, I can’t do that. We’ll get out of here together, and you can take him yourself.”

Bruce is incensed, showing his teeth as he growls out a reply. Something dark—something _deadly_ stirs beneath the man’s surface. “You can get him there the quickest! He needs medical attention. I’ll be fine here.”

“Will you?!” Clark bites back, “Will _they?!_ I don’t know if you can tell, but you’re on the verge of losing it, Batman. You might make it out alright, but you can’t risk going too far! You’re too angry, it’s too personal!”

“Stand down,” Batman growls. “I can handle myself.”

“No, you can’t! If you lose yourself to revenge, you’ll never be able to come back. You told me that yourself.” He shifts Robin’s small body in his arms. “He needs _you!_ And if you let yourself kill or be killed, one way or the other, he won’t have you anymore. Can’t you trust someone, just this once?!”

“I’m gonna take the kid and leave you _both_ behind in a second!” Flash warns angrily.

Superman and Batman whip their heads in his direction. The door is open and Flash has already taken down a guard and thrown him into Batman’s former cell.

“This isn’t over,” Bruce hisses. Clark places the child back into his arms and marches stoically towards the door.

“Yes it is.” 

\-------------------------------- 

The group has little trouble with enemies; there hardly _are_ any in this part of the building, which indicates that the distress signal (and subsequent disappearance of the two sent to answer it) has not gone unnoticed. The real problem is the building itself—it’s like a maze. It’s impossibly large, far bigger than it had seemed from the outside. There are no windows, and all doors lead to more rooms with more doors. Clark would bash through the walls if he could be certain the mansion wouldn’t collapse on top of them.

Barry scouting ahead and Clark watching the rear, Bruce carries his adoptive son through the maze. Dick is still silent and motionless, and Bruce’s anger is subsiding as his worry grows. The soft sound of the boy’s faint breathing invades his senses until it’s all he can hear. He finds himself repeatedly looking into the boy’s face, but the apertures of his mask are closed to slits and he knows Dick’s eyes are still closed. With both hands full, Bruce is unable to fend off attacks; he will have to rely on his teammates to do that for him should the need arise. He doesn’t like it, but he resigns himself to it. There’s only so much he can do. 

“Stop,” Bruce says, halting abruptly, “we’ve already been here.”

“What?”

“How do you know?”

Bruce nods at a spot on the wall, near the floor. It is small and light, so it takes the others a second to see what he’s pointing out. “I’ve been periodically scraping the wall with the steel plating of my boot.”

Barry sighs and leans against a wall. The slow pace of their escape is wearing on him. “We’re never getting out of here,” he laments.

“….stairs…down…”

It’s quiet, and Clark hears it before Bruce does, despite the boy’s head resting on his shoulder. “Robin?” he questions.

Barry zooms closer, fearing the worst, but the child is still breathing. Bruce gives him a gentle shake and Dick’s head lolls against his shoulder. He breathes out a faint groan. Barry and Clark grin. Finally, something positive! Of course, Dick isn’t out of the woods yet, but at least he’s showing some signs of consciousness. “You really had us scared, kid—” Barry starts. Bruce cuts him off with a look.

“What is it, Robin?” he urges. “What about stairs?”

Dick still doesn’t move or open his eyes, but he mumbles out something almost coherent. “Stairs… down. We’re up, they’re… down…” he drifts off again, but Barry taps at his cheek to rouse him again.

“Come on, kid. Stay with us.”

“Upstairs?” Bruce tries, “Are we upstairs? This isn’t a basement?”

They had thought their cells were deep underneath the mansion—there are no windows and the walls, ceiling and floor all appear to be made of cement. This changes the way they think of the situation, but doesn’t change the fact that they are lost in a maze. Even if Superman can burst through the walls, there is still at least a roof above them, a layer of concrete, and possibly more floors. Clark may be able to shield them in the event of a collapse, but between Robin’s poor condition and the possibility of falling debris killing the attackers, it’s still too risky.

“…Stairs down… I left… trail… before I…”

“You left a trail?” Batman can hardly hide his astonishment. He’d witnessed Robin passing out as the drug took hold—but perhaps Dick had faked it! He had seen what the drug had done to Bruce, so he had acted as if it had immediate effect, but managed to stay awake longer. The men in white had thought he was out and carried him off right away, giving him enough time before the sedative actually took hold to figure out their location. 

Bruce stares at the boy in amazement. “I think I found his trail,” Clark exclaims, several feet ahead of them now. At roughly his shoulder height, there is a small smear of blood. Bruce holds the boy’s un-gloved hand and takes a closer look at the small injury—a bite mark! Dick must have bitten the tip of his finger, and as he was carried over the man’s shoulder used it to mark his way whenever he was within reach of a wall.

“…Marked…longer streaks mean… straight… short means… we… turned…” Reversing the path Robin had taken as he was brought to the cells is just the sort of clue they need. It’s just enough of a guide to help them find the stairs, and Barry excitedly zooms to their side and ruffles the kid’s hair. As the boy’s breath hitches from the effort of speaking then becomes more labored, his head slumps more heavily against Bruce’s shoulder. The men’s faces drop. It is an unwanted reminder of the boy’s condition and of their limited time.

“Let’s go,” Batman says, and this time his teammates obey. Softer, to his son, he murmurs: “You’ve done well; all you have to do now is stay with me.” He pauses, unsure if Dick can still hear him. “I’m so proud of you.”

They find and descend the long stairway with little confusion (it, like the maze, is unguarded), and sure enough the lower level is rather more active than the upper. It seems all of the thugs had been summoned to defend their base from the League, giving the four of them an easy escape. It's a rather embarrassing scene. The first thing they see upon reaching the main entryway is a man in all white being slammed face first into the wall, his head bursting through and becoming stuck between the ancient support beams. Elsewhere, a Green Lantern (Jon, not Hal) is interrogating another—probably demanding to know where _they_ are (Hal, on the other hand, is repeated pummeling a man with a giant green middle finger). Wonder Woman catches sight of them first and flies over, stopping to hover above them. She taps an ear piece and, with his super hearing, Clark hears a burst of static, then a distorted _“Go ahead, Diana.”_

“They’re here,” she responds, casting a concerned look at the three adults which then lingers on the child. “All are accounted for, but Robin is—”

Below, Batman shakes his head. He doesn’t need someone else to take Robin away for medical attention. The League has this handled, and his child needs him. Clark, Barry, and Diana watch him leave them, wordlessly. He has more important things than vengeance to worry about.

\-------------------------------- 

Alfred Pennyworth opens the front doors of the manor to greet the guests. Before him, Barry Allen and Clark Kent stand in the entrance, Barry awkwardly looking anywhere but in Alfred’s eyes. Barry has never been to the manor before, and Clark has only seen it in person once. It feels like overstepping boundaries. Alfred smiles. “Please, do come in. Will you be staying for tea, gentlemen?”

The two metas exchange glances, and Barry shrugs. They follow the butler inside. “Master Bruce, your guests have arrived,” Alfred informs, and sure enough, Bruce is already approaching, in a suit and tie just like they’ve always seen on TV. It’s like he knew they were coming.

Bruce offers a practiced smile, and politely gestures to the nearby chairs. The foyer of Wayne Manor is much nicer than the place they’d been the night before (which, admittedly, isn’t exactly hard). “You know,” Bruce starts, and his voice is even different! It’s hard to believe this is the same man that gloomily stalks around League headquarters and has a glare that can darken a room. It’s truly an impressive act. “It’s nothing personal, but it’s starting to seem a little odd that _Bruce Wayne_ has so many friends from different walks of life and places in the country. People are going to start wondering how I’m coming to meet you.” 

Clark raises an eyebrow and pushes up his glasses. “I’ll write another article about you if anyone asks, Bruce. We just figured it’d seem stranger if _Superman and the Flash _showed up at your front door.”__

__“If you do, make sure you start a rumor that we’re sleeping together. I don’t have enough of those,” Bruce quips._ _

__“Wow, he’s got jokes and everything!” Barry exclaims._ _

__“Do try to keep your conversations quiet, Master Bruce,” Alfred scolds, casting a glance towards the main stairway. Bruce smirks back at his butler’s frown._ _

__Clark follows his gaze. He supposes the bedrooms are in that direction. “How is he?”_ _

__This is the true reason for their visit. Barry stares intently at Bruce, ready to try and figure out if he’s lying or not, but Bruce is open with them for once. They’ve earned it. “He’s pretty lethargic, but he’s been up a few times. He barely remembers a thing; didn’t even know what a help he’d been until I told him.” The two visitors slouch a little in their chairs, relief evident on their faces. “He’s upset that he didn’t get to see us all ‘get along’.”_ _

__Clark laughs, “If you can call it that!”_ _

__Barry can’t help but smile. “Hope you’re taking it easy on him for a while.” The joking implication does not go unnoticed._ _

__Bruce holds his hands up as if surrendering. “He’s off duty for at _least_ a week. I even called the academy and told them he has the flu. I figured the symptoms are similar enough.”_ _

__“Let me know if you need someone to fake a doctor’s note,” Barry says, “I’ve got plenty of experience.”_ _

__Soon enough (despite Alfred’s offer of tea) Barry and Clark rise and head for the entrance. Their reason for intruding onto Bruce’s personal life is fulfilled. “Thanks, Bruce,” Clark says as Alfred holds the door for them._ _

__Slipping back into Batman-mode, Bruce nods. “You can expect my report uploaded to the League’s database by tomorrow morning.”_ _

__Barry frowns. “Take your time. Somethings are more important than mission-stuff.”_ _

__Bruce looks over his shoulder, towards Dick’s bedroom._ _

__“I know.”_ _


End file.
